Explanation
by knockoutmouse
Summary: A sequel to DethFrosting. Pickles finally gives an explanation about his aversion to being submissive. Slash, but not much sex, at least none that happens "on screen," so to speak. Rated M for sex, drug use, language, and some heavier themes.


**A/N: Okay, so I suddenly got the idea that I should write this because of a vague reference I made in my previous story. Apologies if they seem a little OOC. Also, I still can't write Pickles's accent so well, but I'm trying. Feed the mouse with reviews, please!**

It had been a few weeks since Nathan and Pickles had been brought together over a late night attempt at baking a cake, and nearly every night since then, they had taken the opportunity for Pickles to sneak through the halls to Nathan's room. (The other way simply didn't work—Nathan was too noticeable to sneak. The one time he'd tried, he'd gotten stuck in an awkward conversation with Murderface, who had run into him halfway there, until he'd finally screamed at the bassist to get lost before he removed his entrails.) Still, Murderface hadn't had any clue that Nathan hadn't just been taking a walk because he couldn't sleep. In fact, his outburst had actually strengthened that explanation.

Tonight, though, Pickles had come to see him again, moving unnoticed through the halls of Mordhaus, locking the door behind him. Nathan had beckoned to him from the bed, where he lay among the disheveled blankets—he'd been unable to sleep, anticipating the tryst—and Pickles had joined him, but as soon as they started making out and Nathan had begun to move on top of him, the drummer slipped away and quickly moved to the opposite edge of the bed, ostensibly to remove his shoes, since that's what he began doing.

Nathan suppressed an annoyed sigh. Not that he didn't like sleeping with Pickles—or even just being around him, to be completely honest—but this seemed to happen every time. It wasn't as if they didn't always end up having sex—they did, once Pickles relaxed a little—but before that happened, he was continually eluding the larger man's grasp or pushing his hands away if it seemed like they'd been in close contact for too long. It was beginning to make Nathan uneasy. Maybe it was just that Pickles didn't want this to be about more than sex? But that didn't make any sense, because he usually stayed afterward, and he wouldn't do that if he just wanted a quick fuck, would he?

It made Nathan confused, and he didn't like to be confused. He'd have to say something, eventually. Soon. Probably now. Well, maybe not _now_, because now Pickles had come back and was kissing him again, running his hands over his chest, biting his earlobe—_oh God_—and he felt himself growing hard against Pickles's thigh, which had somehow found its way between his. Pickles kissed him again, and Nathan let one hand wander up under Pickles's shirt, caressing his soft skin, forcing himself not to let his nails dig in—not yet.

Pickles moaned softly, and without thinking, Nathan shifted his position again, this time leaning back, pulling the drummer down on top of him, and running his hands up his back, then back down to his hips.

"Oh, Gahd, Nate." Pickles met his gaze for a moment, green eyes and eyebrow rings both glinting in the low lamplight of the room.

Nathan grunted in response and moved one hand around to the front of Pickles's jeans, curling his fingers into his waistband.

Pickles slapped his hand away, not hard, but the way one would swat at a bothersome fly.

"Pickles—" Nathan began, but was cut off by the other man leaning down to trail hot kisses down his neck.

"Mmmmhh—no, wait" he said, taking Pickles's face in his hands and gently moving him back. "No, we, uh, we've got to talk."

"Now?" said Pickles, not too happy at the change of plans.

"Yeah. Uh, now would be best, yeah."

Pickles sighed and moved off the singer, sitting cross-legged on the bed, leaving space between himself and Nathan. "Okey, dood, what's up?"

"It's uh—I mean, it's not—" Nathan couldn't figure out a good way to say it, so he blundered ahead anyway. "Look, do you notice how you push me away when we're—uh, doing stuff? I don't get it, 'cause I think it means you're, uh, not into it or something, but then you keep on, you know, touching me or whatever." He said the words in a rush, not looking at Pickles while he spoke, hoping not to have to make eye contact at all until he answered and (he hoped) gave him some reassuring explanation. This, however, did not happen, because Pickles did not in fact answer at all.

That meant that Nathan had to look up at him, and immediately wished that he hadn't, because the expression on the drummer's face wasn't one that he was going to easily forget. He was gone. His eyes were staring straight ahead, in the kind of stare suggesting that the lights are on but nobody's home. His expression was one of—Nathan couldn't put a word to it. Fear? Hate? Revulsion? All of them came to mind, but none of them were exactly fitting, either. And Nathan had done something to make him look that way.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong? I didn't mean—I'm sorry."

No answer. He was now a little alarmed.

"Pickles! Come on, talk to me."

With a deep sobbing breath, Pickles wrenched himself back to the present from wherever it was that he had been.

"It's—it's naht you, Nate," he said, pausing to gain control of his voice. "It's nothin' thet you ever did."

"You just don't want to be gay. That's what it is, right?" asked Nathan, feeling quite despondent now. He knew it. He should never have brought it up.

"No, it ain't thet, I told ya."

"Oh. Well, uh, I'm really confused, then. But if you, uh, don't want to talk about it—"

"Nah, if I'm gahnna be with ya, I gahtta tell ya about it, I guess."

"With me? So, you mean, we're like, together?" (Damn that unmetal feeling of happiness that was rising up in his chest at the idea!)

"I—eh, if ya wanna be, dood. I mean, I ain't really been sleepin' with anyone else, but if you don't wanna—"

"No, I—I do," Nathan assured him. "And whatever this is—it's not that bad, I swear, just forget I said anything."

"Nah, I can't do thet, dood. Ya don't understeand. I didn't even realize I was doin' it til ya said. I just gahtta get it over with an' tell ya."

"Sure," said Nathan, his voice sounding strangely gentle, even to him. Whatever this was had to be something pretty heavy. He almost reached out to lay a hand on Pickles's shoulder, but decided against it. The drummer was keeping his distance. Maybe he didn't want to be touched right now.

Pickles took another deep breath and began to toy with his dreads. "You know how me an' Tony, we had a thing, reight?"

"I—uh, yeah, I figured."

"Well, this one taime, reight, we were, ya know, doin' it, and I guess he had got pretty high beforeheand—he was inta heavier drugs thean I ever was—an' he started goin' at it really rough, ya know?"

"Yeah?" Nathan really didn't like the direction this story was going. "What happened?"

"It—it was hurtin' me, ya know, an' I told him ta stahp, an'—an' he didn't."

"Oh—Pickles—" Nathan didn't know what to say. "That's not cool."

"An'—an' it hurt so fuckin' much, ya know?" He gave a small shudder, and one hand wiped harshly at his eyes. "It felt like it leasted fuckin' forever."

"Come here," growled Nathan, and Pickles scooted closer. Nathan wrapped his arms around the smaller man, letting Pickles lean back into his chest, absorbing his warmth. Incidentally, he noticed that Pickles's bare arms were quite cold, despite the relative warmth of the room. Nathan pulled the blankets over them both and let his cheek rest on top of the drummer's head.

"Is that when you guys—uh, the band, like broke up?"  
"Nah. He apahlogized once he was sober, only, ya know..." he trailed off.

"What?"

"It wasn't like thet was the only taime it haeppened." He wiped his eyes again, less harshly this time. "An' now I'm fuckin' cryin' like a little girl over it. Ya must think I'm a total fuckin' pussy, huh?"

"No." Nathan kissed him on the cheek and held him closer. Pickles blinked hard and rested his head against Nathan's shoulder.

"It's okay." Nathan almost couldn't believe it was his own voice whispering condolences, his own black-nailed fingers gently wiping tears from Pickles's face. "I won't ever do that to you. And," he added brightly as the thought occurred to him, "you know, we could have him killed. I bet Charles could, uh, like, arrange it."

"Nah," said Pickles, not by any means cheerfully, but perhaps a little less miserable than he had been, "I couldn't do theat." He considered for a moment, turning so that Nathan's hair brushed over his face. "I—eh, I dunno if I can get over this reight awey, Nate. I mean, it's naht like I think you're gahnna do anything to me, it's more like I don't even notice I'm doin' it, ya know? I mean, if ya don't want me 'cause of it I'd understeand."

"I'd have to be fucking stupid not to want you," said Nathan. "Don't worry about it. I, uh, I can deal with it, okay?"

"Okay. Hey, Nate?"

"Yeah?"

"You care if we just sleep tahnight?"

"'S fine." Nathan reached over to turn off the lamp on the bedside table, and he lay down, still holding the drummer, who snuggled close to him, still thankful for the warmth.

"Pickles?"

"Yeah?"

"One thing, though. If you _ever_ do another reunion tour with Snakes & Barrels, you'd better keep Tony away from me or I'll beat the shit out of him. I, uh, I hope that's okay."

"Yeah, I think I can live with thet."

Pickles actually did smile at this idea. He'd have to think it over. But not now. Now he was tired. He felt a light sensation against his shoulder, as of a surreptitious kiss from the man next to him, and it was the last thing he noticed before he fell asleep.


End file.
